


Ladders

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Disappearances, John sobs, Lestrade is not sympathetic or helpful, M/M, Mrs Hudson tutting, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Sherlock distressed, Sherlock snarky, Superstitions, drug use?, feelings unspoken, ladders - Freeform, tea and more tea, walking under ladders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Afraid of stepping under a ladder? You should be!John wasn't.But what happened when he did!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 14





	1. John and the Ladder

Sherlock Holmes pauses outside of police headquarters.  
He inhales deeply and momentarily glances my way.  
“Let's walk,” he offhandedly says while proceeding down the steps to the sidewalk.

Not asking my opinion, but, as per the norm, I follow.

* * *

The air is so unLondon like. Balmy with a breeze that just brushes your body.

I don't want to walk.  
I'm frigging tired.  
My only want, for now, is a scorching hot shower, a piping hot cup of tea, and the softness and friendliness of my bed.

* * *

“Walk,” he says, as if he reads my thoughts, “It will only make you value the beverage and the respite even more.” 

* * *

I've been extremely irritable lately.

My flatmate of six months, Sherlock, has taken to regarding me with veiled eyes. Trying to deduce what is wrong but afraid to ask, to invade my privacy.

As Sherlock monitors me, I tuck in even more and hide from his scrutiny.

* * *

Nothing is right anymore. It's all about the fucking nightmare that I can't wake from. One that has shaken me-- derailed me. Was it for real? How could it have been?

It appeared in all ways to have come about. 

But here, walking beside me, is the man himself. From the top of those curls to the polished hand-made shoes.

* * *

The ordeal I had faced certainly felt downright authentic.  
And because of it, I began to evaluate my sentiments towards the tall larger than life genius, Sherlock Holmes.

Those nightmare days and nights, when all I could do was sit in my chair thinking.  
Mourning, sobbing.  
Those harsh, but baffling days, slumped in my comfortable chair.  
Never moving.  
Unable to change clothes because it was a symbol of that day.  
That day that I found him gone.  
My sorrow swallowed me as deeply as a whale ingesting its dinner of krill.  


I was missing the closeness, the overpowering total, and substance of the detective.

If not for the kind attention given to me by Mrs. Hudson, my landlady, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, I suspect I would have withered away.

* * *

Days went by, and the silence, the demise of a life that held me in its grip, exciting, ever-challenging, and the extra--which couldn't be named--ultimately grew unbearable.  
The flat's stuffiness ultimately drew me out of my stupor, however light-headed from lack of food and sleep, but well aware of the need to run.  
Run from the memories, not visible now, but visions that remain in my head. 

* * *

Hands in pockets, coat collar, turned up as he would have done, I walk. I tread the streets of the city from early morning until the first dimming of the light.

For days,

For nights, the desire to find something to do other than sit in the reminders of him.  
I walk.

* * *

Cold as the rain begins to fall with a vengeance, I return.  
Weary, dreary as the evening is turning out to be, I'm about to hang my coat up, but leap almost to the ceiling, startled, no thunderstruck by a voice--your voice-- “John. Tea would be pleasant.”

My coat slides from my fingers as I turn, and-- you are here! In the flat!  
Yes, it's you, you--sitting in your seat, with my laptop open on your lap and your head bobbing away as you type.

“You’re--you--you’re--here?” squeaking like a mouse caught in a trap.

You look up, but for a second, before you resume typing, "was at Barts at the lab. Molly needed my help,” pausing, “tea, John.”

And there we were, and here we are--back to what passes for normal in the Holmes-Watson flat.

* * *

I’ve never spoken to anyone, least of all you, of the nightmare that took place.  
The hell of losing you. But that only made me madly aware of how much I need one Sherlock Holmes.  
I have accepted that I have fallen in love with you.  
Lunatically--the word I use to describe--my love.

* * *

So lost in my own head as I'm walking with you, I almost fail to see it--and when I do, I'm brought up short, my heart leaping, my body shuddering.  
A ladder-a fucking as hell ladder-and abruptly halt as the birth of my nightmare is presently before my eyes.

I shiver at the shocking reminder of a similar incident.  
A circumstance that took place two heartbreaking months ago.

* * *

Sherlock draws to a stop when he realizes I'm not keeping up with him and drops back.  
Baffled by my wide-eyed gawping at--a ladder. 

There it is!  
Tilted against the building-- a metal telescoping ladder!

* * *

Sherlock bends, his locks drooping over his forehead while gazing at my rigid body.  
“Whatever is the matter, John? Terrified of being garrotted or expiring? You do comprehend that those are two of the ludicrous myths that are related to wandering under a ladder?”

"Sher--sher," stuttering, "let's go home. I--I need to tell you a story," my breathing so uneven, my legs so wobbly, I nearly faint with the effort of walking.

“Oh, a once upon a time story. Love those!” his mockery dripping from his impeccably formed mouth.

How this could open a can--no--a vat of issues! But it’s something that's time has--and not I must be willing to meet head-on.

“Lay off the ridicule. I’m serious.”

* * *

In the kitchen, my hands shake, taking down the cups while waiting for the water to boil.

He notices my agitation, of course, he does!  
And in that seeing, he understands how genuine this is for me.

Waiting for anything is not an easy task for Sherlock, so he paces.  
He paces from his chair to the kitchen, over to the window, and back to the leather armchair, then sits.

His hands steeple with his fingers touching his chin.

His thinking position he calls it.

My rear end barely touches the cushion of my chair, the butterflies in my stomach preventing me from staying still, and so, I'm up and aimlessly moving across the room.  
I know my pulse is racing off the charts, and I can’t delay much longer.  
"Oh, I forgot the tea," shuffling towards the kitchen.

“John, leave the tea,” prickly, his voice deep in his throat.

Tossing my hands in the air and delivering more than a few sighs, I can't put it off any longer. It's time to get to the heart of the matter.

* * *

“Whatever this is, this telling, I understand you are apprehensive of how I will react to it. Am I correct, John?”

“As usual, Sherlock, you are on the money.”

“Then, John Watson, I suggest you initiate and let me be the judge of it all.” 

* * *

Settling myself into the comfort of the cushions, I try to make myself small, as small as possible.  
Blowing out a breath, I launch into the most peculiar narrative I have ever spoken.

* * *

“It began two months ago. It was a day just like today weather-wise. Really nice, it was. We had concluded with the police paperwork on the Finelli jewelry robbery." The memory of it gives me a moment of pleasure, and I explain, "you had just completely demoralized Anderson and --”

“I remember, but-- you're stalling, John,” his eyes drilling a hole in my chest.

“Give me a chance, will ya! I need some time to lead up to the fucking--, oh, for Christs' sake!” spitting the words

He nods, steeples his hands, his fingers brush his jaw, his elbows leaning on his thighs.

His most annoying of poses and--the most adorable.

“ At the time in question, we strode out of the police station and began to walk down the street. Exactly like today.”

“John--!

Whacking my hands on the wings of my seat, I begin to rise, “ if you don't let me tell it my way, then--.”

His face registers, not with shock at my outburst, but a knowing.  
A knowing that my tempter tends to soar quickly.

He but waves one hand, placing it back, his eyes cast down.

I sit down, taking into consideration that my nerves are shot to freaking hell, and it's time to tame them.  
Not going to work.

“I will keep my thoughts private, John. But so far, you're boring me. Continue,” those penetrating eyes now at a level with mine.

My breathing is heavy, but the pressure I'm under, the pressure he's putting on me is only making it worse.  
I squeeze the arms of my seat, digging my nails into the fabric.  
My jaw clenches, bottom teeth against the top.  
No! No! Not a good way of thinking.  
I must loosen up, must keep my cool.  
I open my mouth, lick my lips at the same time as I remove my fingers from their death grip.  
I splay my palms on my trousers and stare at each finger as if to will them to stop me from speaking the unspoken.

“To resume, Sherlock. We continued and there in front of us, against a building, stood a ladder. Yes, you git! Exactly like today,” drawing a breath, “ I was never one for stupid folklore, and I walked under it, laughing. Once on the other side, which of course took milliseconds, you were gone. You had been on my left, and now you were missing.”

Sherlock's mouth opens, ready with a remark, probably one of ridicule, but I bring up my hand, “no, don't, don't go there, don't even try.”

I had to dominate this conversation--to preserve my self-control.

If he gets snarky, I might be tempted to take a punch or two at his beautiful face, or, as I usually do, when it gets too unbearable, just leave the flat.

* * *

“Look, you, this is not easy, and if you start with any cutting remarks, I will leave, and you can fuck--.”

But it's me that's more disturbed. At myself. Maybe I should have left this in the dark. Keep it in the depths of the ‘strange things happen realm.’  
If I shut down now, he will badger me day and night.  
I know, beyond all doubt, that at two or three in the a.m., he'd bounce into my bedroom, waking me and coming up with all sorts of viewpoints--of course, which would be wrong.  
In one trillion years, even this remarkable genius could never envision anything close to what actually happened.

Clearing my throat, I recognize I'm doing anything to stall, anything to keep from-- but no--I have to persist.

It's becoming clear to me that this whole ordeal has been a burden on my chest.

"Of course, I tried to locate you. Beginning with entering any shops inside strolling distance. I was so confused and disturbed at the prospect that you took off without me- - once more."

His hands unfold, he looks up, still ready with the quick rebuttal.

Before he has a chance to deny, “not a fucking word, you--"as I sigh and slap my thigh, all in such frustration that--"I don't give one monkeys toot what you might say with that--," was I really going to utter the words 'gorgeous mouth?'  
Yes, the dumb bastard that you are!

"My brain reasoned that you ducked into a shop, but that was not to be, so I called a taxi and headed to the flat. Maybe you had gone home and "--,pointedly waiting for his retort, which didn't come.  
How normal for this genius to forget he has a partner with him. To vanish without giving notice.

All I hear is a semi-quiet harumph.

"Oh, stop that! Stop giving me those--I don't do that type of thing--look. You know damn well you do that lots of times. Leave me without a fucking word!"

My fingers play a rhythm on the padded arm, "I need a drink," leaping to my feet, "this is not as easy as I thought."  
I uncap the whiskey decanter and hastily pour a glassful.

"Do you truly require--is it that severe, John?" his voice dives deep into his throat, definitely indicating his concern.

'Yes, it is,' I say inside my head. Severe because as I'm telling this, I know very well that Sherlock is reading the truth into it.  
Reading that my concern was and is for his wellbeing.  
But more so because I care, care much more than a flatmate should.

* * *

I finish off the bracing liquor in three gulps and splash in another round to return to my seat.

* * *

"While on the way home, I tried calling and texting you, but you didn't pick up. How unusual, I thought, " staring across at said mobile on the desk.

" I walked about the flat looking for something. A note. A telltale sign, maybe your teacup left on the table. But no information and let me tell you, I was pissy," heaving a sigh.  
"You didn’t turn up that night or the next," not mentioning that I had slept each night in this very chair, waiting.  
"I thought of calling Lestrade. If anything was the matter, I know Greg would have called. Even picked up my phone and almost hit your brother's number but stopped. If you were--."

"You assumed I had acquired narcotics and was secreted in some bolt hole, is that it?" with an inflection, biting each word.

" By this time, I didn't know what to think, Sherlock. Understand, I was frantic. I decided to pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson to see if she knew your whereabouts." 

God, how that scene replayed itself over and over after that visit!

"She gathered me in her arms, squeezing me in a vise-like grip, 'Ohhhh, Johnnnnn.' She began sobbing, her face deep into my shoulder. Why was she crying? Not understanding but knowing how sensitive she was, I patted her back and, as gently as I could, asked her where you were."

I lifted the loaded glass and guzzled down the whiskey, burning my throat in the process.

" She backed away just enough to reach her hand up and place it on my forehead as if checking my temperature. Whispered that I had best get upstairs, that I was delirious, and she'd be up shortly with tea and something to calm my nerves. She awkwardly half-closed the door and left me standing, wondering what the hell she was going on about.”

“John,” leaning forward, irritated, “I don’t need every facet--.”

“Can’t help it, Sherlock. It’s so creepy. Like one of those horror shows you'd see on the telly.”

Fluttering one hand toward me, he lays both on the arms of the chair and says, “continue then.”

“I distinctly remember Mrs. Hudson setting a pot of tea and scones on my little table with her look of pity on her face.  
‘ _John she says,'_ her voice quivering, _'Sherlock jumped off Barts Hospital roof a week ago. He was pronounced dead on impact. Don't you remember?'_  
"She took out a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. I couldn't comprehend her words. What caused her to utter something so ridiculous? What would possess her to tell such a story? She continued to fuss. She didn't know what to say or do and asked if I needed help in removing all of your--at which she began to cry. I stood and gently ushered her to the door, saying I could manage alone.  
_' How hard to lose your soulmate. And such a beautiful couple,'_ she kept tittering on and on about our young lives being destroyed as she descended the steps."

I can clearly see the detectives' eyes begin to gleam in that way that he has when solving a crime. I know what he's thinking.  
Here is a case to solve.  
His own!

I can feel his mind whirring and almost see the air around him reverberate.

"Don't. I've not finished. Not a sound out of you. Let me go on," insisting.  
" I ran out of the house and to the NSY and discovered Greg in his office with one of the officers. Bouncing on my feet, Greg interrupted the man telling him to leave us alone. I got a furious look from the lieutenant. 'Don't ask questions,' I said to Greg,' but fill me in on what occurred on Barts's roof! Was Sherlock pushed?' He gave me a look of a shared feeling, one of sympathy, and cleared his throat more than a few times, never once looking directly into my eyes."

_'John, Sherlock was not pushed; he leaped off the roof. By the time we arrived, they had transported his body into the ambulance, and he was pronounced dead. James Moriarty lay on the roof, a hole in his head, his gun lying beside him. Ruled a suicide.'_

"Not possible, I said. I couldn't speak of how, to me, you had gone missing. He'd think I was over the hill--"a finger circling round near my ear.

"Instead, he shook his head, walked closer, and clutched me in a bear hug. He whispered for me to see a doctor. Give me a tranquilizer. His voice broke, and he left me turning back to his desk saying he had work to do."

* * *

The noises of traffic outside, and the hum of a vacuum from downstairs, held my attention for a few minutes.  
Something popped up in my head.

" Do you remember being on the roof? Was I there? On the roof with you?"

"I was supposed to meet Moriarty on the roof. He had threatened to eliminate my friends--," he sighed acidly," yes, John--friends. Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson--and you. Mycroft and I calculated the odds of my compromising myself. We instituted a series of codes on my phone by which I knew the events of the moment. I ascended the steps instead of the elevator, and by the time I reached the third floor, the awaited signal came. By eliminating the assassins, I was safe to return home."

“That part, then, it really happened. You were going to go up on that roof and--what-- jump? Why?"

"We surmised that James would trade--my death--for the lives of those mentioned."

"And like the absolute over confident git that you are, you were willing to take the chance of what?" by this time, his tall tale being almost as smashingly stupid and unreal as mine.

Another swallow of the brew, feeling as if nothing I say can impress him with the extraordinary reality of what I had gone through.  
I'm still unsure whether it was a drunken illusion, maybe even something rotten that I ate, or--was it real?  


But no matter what--this man, facing me right now, this man who fits so largely in my life as more than a flatmate is my lifeline to--well, to life itself.

* * *

Whatever the case, whatever Sherlock said, I still have a ways to go before finishing.

* * *

" I don't know how I got out of the police station and into Gregs' car but I do remember--I remember-- bawling."  
My eyes blink several times, casting off imminent tears," oh, don't look at me like that! How did I not recall that serious an event! But then--," pausing as I see his face turn from concern to utter disbelief. Was he upset that he jumped? Or that I had confessed to weeping over him at all?

"Sherlock. What boggles my mind is how you managed to go out of sight so quickly," taking my handkerchief out of my pocket, while I try to be discreet--not working--at clearing away a tear.  
" Anyways, I recall Molly came to the flat still wearing her lab coat and placed a sedative in my hand with a glass of water, and like Mrs. Hudson, tut-tutting all over the place. Somehow I reached my bed because I woke in the morning, still in my clothes and really needing a cup of tea. Still not fathoming all of it, I walked downstairs, only to discover, sitting in your chair, your brother, Mycroft." I recalled how disturbing it was to see some other body than yours in that leather chair. 

Sherlock utters a snort, and I, sort of smiling, snort back.

"He motioned for me to occupy my chair, his polished shoe first shoving it further from him. As if I had some virulent form of a disease."

I follow the lifted eyebrows and the slight upturn of the younger brother's lips, his sneer, and have to smile.

"To my utter surprise, tea and toast with butter was sitting on my table. I raised my eyes to your brother, and he tipped his head in assent."

"It was one of his lackeys that apparently executed it," Sherlock smiled ever so confident that his brother would not, could not, lower himself to do such a thing.

"No. I did ask. And he, you know, gave a glance that told me he had, with his own two hands, made me breakfast. He said Mrs. Hudson had let him up, and he spent the night. Worried about me, he said. Can you imagine? " Sherlock bends his head off to the side, runs his hand through his mass of curls to show his amazement and confusion.

"I was also astonished. Would not believe that he would demonstrate sentiment. He even told me he would not explain anything until I ate."

"Probably charred the toast, right?" he asked, licking his lips and smiling, waiting eagerly for my verdict.

"I wish you'd stop making derogatory remarks about him! I don't like him either, but I respect that he does his best to look after you," so disgusted with their bickering, "the tea was brewed the way I like it and the toast was perfect. To answer your question."

His eyebrows raise, his smile condescending as if belying the truth, "well, if what you say is true, and if I jumped off a roof, I guess he missed the ' looking after me' part." 

Once again, at the ready to play down his brothers' role, "yet, John Watson, here I sit before you. How do you justify this?” lips curling.

“Let me continue. Mycroft revealed that you did jump but could not, for security reasons, let me in on the particulars. I snapped and was going for his throat, but he lifted his damn umbrella and jabbed at me, stopping my advance. He left, and after that, I sank into the chair and went to pieces. I know that people came and went, but I was outside of it all. Not hearing, seeing, or caring."

The memory of it choked, and I covered my face. Beyond being careful of what Sherlock thought of my behavior. Beyond worrying what he would read into this.

"I know someone took all the liquor out of the flat because I went looking for it. Molly and Greg came regularly and brought takeaway. Telling me bits and pieces of their day. Of course, Mrs. Hudson hovered over me, clucking like a mother hen.”

If only Sherlock knew. If only I could be honest right now and utter the words needed to open up to him.  
But--something is still cutting it short before it reaches my tongue. I'm past fretting that it's a member of my sex that transmits these tremors along my body.  
No, that's not it.  
I'm terrified he would scorn the entire thought of us being more than companions and push me out of his life.  
The loss of his friendship, the loss of being close to him would be devastating, and that's why my silence.  
I would rather die than lose him.

* * *

“I took to walking the streets, day and night, rain or sunshine. One day, at last, I got over my hang-up enough to lead my feet down that same street. And--there it was! The ladder! Perched up against the same building!”

“I recollect the building," he says, "they are still in the process of repairing the roof. The persistent rain has kept them from completing the work."

“Whatever. All I knew was I had to have you back,” hesitating, seeing the unexpected sparkle light up his eyes.

Was he just as glad that I wanted him in my life? Was there something behind those eyes I was missing?

"But then, I stood motionless. Fixed in place because," as I look up at the ceiling, confusion taking hold.  
" I sort of heard in my head-- us arguing about my going to Tescos for groceries," pausing and trying to figure out this mess.  
" Was that where I was this time you and your brilliant," sneering, "older brother were devising this plan?” 

" I initiated the idea of your shopping. It was required for you to be ignorant and out of peril. On the off chance that you followed me to the roof, Moriarty could use you as collateral. "By the time you returned, I was home and listened to your bitter complaint about nauseous taxi drivers. And proceeded to go on about those individuals who wouldn't get off their rumps to assist in carrying the bags of food." In a way, I have to laugh because that would also have been aimed at one certain angular body sitting across from myself.

"You never said a word about any of it," my chin reaching down to my chest.

"Stop John. Only just now did you indicate that you had any conception of the gathering on the rooftop. I surmised that since the only two people who were aware of the situation were my brother and myself, there was no reason--."

I shake my head, truly astounded, “I get it. So you weren't dead, and it never happened that way. I--guess," covering my eyes with my hands, "that it was some sort of weird dream."

“Most certainly, John. Most certainly.”

But--was it? Did something actually happen--was there an alternative existence that had occurred?

"But there's one other thing, Sherlock," knowing the coloring on my cheeks had brightened.  
"Sherlock, I--well--you see-- during that time I--it was hard--, "bumbling my way through.

"Don't fumble, John. Do use your words," him being cheeky as ever.

My determination hardens.  
This has to be it--I should own this to whatever end it may bring.  
And on the off chance that he- -?  
There's no off-chance.  
It's now or never for me--for us.  
It's past the point of no return.

"I don't want you out of my life ever again, do you hear me, Sherlock?"

"I don't plan on it, John."

"That's--that's, well-- not what--I mean. You are all important to me. To my life. You're--well, you're the--, "choking, but pushing the following out," the nearest thing to a partner. Oh shit! What I mean is that I love you. You hear me, I--love--you."

His mouth opens, his eyes, those radiant eyes stare.  
He squints, blinks, he shuts his mouth.

I follow the emotions as they flicker across his face.  
Surprise, denial, doubt, panic.  
And just as suddenly, it happens. Acceptance!  
Comprehension sheds light in his eyes, his cheeks, which turn pink, his mouth, and his body.

"You--mean--love? Love?"

My head shaking up and down swiftly while my imbecilic heart crashes out of my chest, "yes, I love you. You, Sherlock Holmes, you."  
With all the sane presence of mind quitting, I rise and walk steadily but gradually towards him.  
My eyes joining his with a surety I've never known. I stoop over him, my hands on his knees, and do the one thing I've desired to since my first contact with this genius. This rarity of a man.

I kiss him.

* * *


	2. Sherlock and the Ladder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did John take off and leave Sherlock? What happened under the ladder?

The air is so unLondon like. Refreshing with a breeze that simply brushes your body.

The police headquarters was our last stop for the day, and John was out of sorts.

I had committed the blunder of insisting on a walk.  
It was noteworthy that I could not understand the mystery of why I've lately focused on Johns' needs.  
Never before had I put anyone else's desires before mine.

But John--John was extraordinary.  
Somebody I was unable to consider without a touch of tenderness.  
And why that was, I could not ascertain.  
It just was.

My legs stop moving as I recognize that John has come to a halt well before I have.

"Have you ever walked under a ladder, Sherlock?" he inquires.

I shrug and wonder at his question.

I see the gleam of devilment in his eyes, the sly smile that shapes his lips, and understand what he is about to do.

I wave off his impishness, even though it sends a glow all through>  
"Never presented itself before, so it was never a consideration. Myself, who is wholly unsuperstitious, would not give it a moment's reflection. But if you are one of those who are terrified of being garrotted or perishing, you might. You comprehend, John, that those are two of the ludicrous myths related to meandering under a ladder? You know I'm never one for moronic legends!”

"Well, since you are challenging me, here goes," John assuming his military stance, chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach tucked in.  
A posture I'm so accustomed to and that never fades from my mind.  
It transmits a shiver through parts of my body I never suspected would respond to any emotion.

He salutes me with a sardonic smile and, with two enormous strides, steps under the metal ladder.

And doesn't emerge on the other side!  
He doesn't emerge--he doesn't--!  
People hasten past while I stand, with body frozen, brain vacuous, and attached to the very spot where I had stood as John--disappeared?  
Internally, I cannot compute what my eyes are reporting.  
This is not conceivable.  
It cannot occur in the conventional realm of the universe. One doesn't merely eliminate oneself from- -.  
“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth--."  
A quote I have used in so many instances, and john would repeat, mocking my words and tone.  
And now--it must be the reality.

I'm snapped back to the physical world by the fragrance of sweet-smelling baked goods.  
The next door down is a patisserie, and that may be the justification for Johns exodus.  
He can never resist the opportunity to purchase sweets.

Ah yes!  
John will be in there obtaining his typical purchase of chocolate somethings.

Wrenching open the door, I stare at the patrons but see no John.

There could be only one other interpretation.  
None with any semblance of order.

John had ventured out from the ladder, noticed a taxi at the wait, and hopped in.  
He would always complain about how presumptuous it was for me to leave him without giving of information on my whereabouts.

I will return home and accept any abuse John is prepared to deliver.

As long as my John, the doctor, is alive and perfectly healthy.

Sitting in the taxi, the driver endeavors to make conversation, as I basically disregarding his mumblings to make an attempt at some sort of reason.

Fact--John ventured under the ladder as witnessed by myself.  
Fact--Calculating Johns's pace of step, it would have taken two point five seconds to emerge.  
Fact--I cannot recall spotting Johns's advancement forward beneath the ladder.  
Fact--He never arrived on the opposite side.  
Fact--He did depart with me from police headquarters. I distinctly recollect him by my side.  
Fact--He would be waiting at the flat. He is sitting in his typical seat, on his laptop, drafting our latest successful crime scene and its end.

I leap out of the cab, toss a bundle of cash on the front seat.

John is not in his seat, clicking away at the computer keys.  
My memory reminds me of a tune--a chair is still a chair even though there is no one sitting there.  
Without John, there it is only a chair, empty.  
As your life is.  
How poetic you have become in your moment of terror, Sherlock Holmes!

I remain standing in the doorway, startled while examing the parlor.  
There is no trace of some other individual living in this flat, let alone one Doctor John Watson.  
No computer, slippers, science fiction books, nor his union square flag pillow commonly lie on the chair cushion.

Perplexed and incapable of focusing, I race to the kitchen, knowing that John, in his scramble to leave, had left his unwashed teacup sitting in the sink.  
No teacup!

Frantic with terror, I throw open all of the pantry doors to discover there's no military mug, no bread rolls he adores, and no Yorkshire teabags.  
Not even the specific pot he uses to boil water.

This cannot be a reality!  
Increasingly more unnerved, my breath falls in tiny gasps as I surge up the steps toward Johns's bedroom and--.  
His bed--a mattress--no sheets, pillow, or duvet.  
His closet--hangers bleak with no garments to embellish them.  
His room--devoid of whatsoever of John.  
Not even the scent of John Watson.

Thrown into mental confusion, I sag against the door frame, and my hands beat a fury on my head, willing my mind to concoct an answer.

There has to be an explanation.  
A rational reason.

"Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson," shrieking to my landlady who lives downstairs.

She holds her hands against her ears after the door is open, "Oww, don't shout. What is it, Sherlock?"

"Wheres John? Have you observed or heard his footfall on the steps arriving home today?"

"For god's sake, my boy, calm down," inclining her head to a side as her eyes analyze my face, "John? John who? What are you raving about now, dear?"

"Doctor John Watson. Mrs. Hudson. You know--the man, the doctor, who--who at present lives with me upstairs," jabbing my finger towards the ceiling.

" He's near mid-chest on me, military-cut blonde hair, blue eyes," articulating nearly an octave higher.

Her eyes wander over my body, scrutinizing, while she gingerly sets the palm of her hand on my temple, " have you gotten a chill? Maybe too much time spent in the rain?"

More vigorously than intended, I slap her arm away," Mrs. Hudson, this is no time for banter."

"Sherlock Holmes," she pulls back," how dare you to suggest I have anything other than your--," her hands vanish into her apron pockets--which is a sure signal of her agitation.  
"Young man, you live alone. Always have. So I don't know what you're carrying on about unless--."

Very slowly, she slips back towards her door, "I'll bring you some tea and something to eat. Go back upstairs. I'll be just a minute," and with deliberation, she closes her door.

No John Watson?  
Shaking my head, now even more fierce in my belief that perhaps there is something wrong--no!  
There's nothing amiss with me! Nothing whatsoever!

It's her!  
Mrs. Hudson has entered old age, and dementia has set in!  
The poor woman!

I refuse to yield to the likelihood that Johns attendance is not a fabrication of my imagination.

One article of his, if I discover it, will establish his residency in the flat.

His firearm!  
His Beretta 92FS.  
John wouldn't be who he is without that weapon.

I stumble over the stairs to his room, pull open the nightstand drawer--and it's not there!  
Inconceivable!

My body goes limp, collapsing to the floor.  
My downward spiral into hell will provide no rational solution for this twisted occurrence.

All my facilities stir as I hear someone's footsteps on the stairs.  
My heart starts to pound its rat-tat tune-it's John!!

It hastily sinks when I recognize Mrs. Hudson's unhurried progress up to the flat.

It's difficult to drag myself to the sofa, but I do, just minutes before she enters.

"Yoo-hoo, Sherlock. I brought you tea and some hot soup. Have a go at it, and I'll check on you later tonight."

" Mrs. Hudson. A moment of your time."  
She lowers the food onto the table, curls her fingers together, her features wrinkled with concern.

"How long have I resided here?"

"Oh dear," her hands dancing from face to dress and back, "you are ill, aren't you?" winding her fingers around the edges of her apron, she replies timidly, "you moved in here over two months ago. And you've been searching for a flatmate. Do you remember the two nice gentlemen that answered your advert last month? You all but threw them out--thought they were idiots--to quote yourself."  
Her fingers continue to fuss with her apron, "does that answer your question?"

She retreats towards the steps, and again I prod, "and no singular person has moved in even for a day?"

She lays a hand over her mouth and whimpers, " oh, my. You are having illusions. Take two paracetamol and go to bed. And I'll call--no, just go to bed," waving both hands in evident distress, " and makes a swift exit out the door.

In my mind, lives a whole room overflowing with John Watson random data.  
Where did it come from?

His drab but economical jumpers.  
The chuckle that gushes at unforeseen times.  
The wrinkle lines around his eyes when he laughs.  
His inclination for chocolate biscuits with tea.

I moan into my hands, chewing on my knuckles, knowing without a doubt I could babble endlessly about the said doctor.

He exists! He must exist!  
There could be no other answer for the knowledge I possess of his characteristics, his habits, his sound.

The room suspends its turning, or maybe it's me that has frozen completely still.  
I fold myself into my chair, my fingers beating a rhythm on the arm.

The devastation this has on my mental abilities is both intellectually and truly tiring.  
My head reclines, gazing into emptiness at first, and next, the doctor appears in my field of vision--.  
No, Sherlock Holmes. You are not advancing into a twisting road of insanity.  
John Watson was without a doubt a real living individual!

It’s the ladder!  
It must be!  
It was the one object that transformed and challenged the entirety of that which I knew to be valid.

Pacing across the expanse of the room, I feel the desire, the dire need to return to the scene of this foul play.  
For indeed, it is a criminal location.  
Someone has vanished.

Flinging my coat around my shoulders, I run outside to be instantly pelted by a substantial rainfall.  
It's become a futile attempt to locate an unoccupied cab.  
Unconscious of the chilliness of the downpour, I run, skidding to a standstill at the very structure where the ladder had previously laid.

There was a ladder rising at the same location where I presently stand!  
Of that, I am sure!

And that specific doctor of whom I recollect so so vividly did march under it.

Remaining in the middle of the sidewalk, I whirl around and around, bewildering a significant number of people.

The bakery, I believe would remember, must know the whereabouts of the ladder or the knowledge of who does.

Indeed, that is it!  
Discover the whereabouts of the ladder, walk under it and locate John Watson.

Entering the warmth of the store, I bellow to the reddish-haired fleshy woman who stands behind the counter," where is the ladder that stood outside?"

"Sir, you don't have to raise your voice. I can hear you. That ladder that was there yesterday? They took it with them last evening when it started to rain," and shows me her back.

I have no tolerance for niceties  
I'm as yet unequipped to speak in a softer tone due to the unnatural circumstance," I must know where--.

Her attitude, one of defiance, "I don't know what this is about, but if you don't stop behaving like an ass, I'll call the police. Do you understand?"

Retreating two steps, my palms up in a signal of peace, " How might I contact the business that owned the ladder? Would you know? Please," that last not articulated often.

"That's much better. Don't have to have that kind of ruckus, you know," her steps taking her to the transparent display case.  
She thumbs through the numerous business cards that lay atop.

Peering into the case, my breath catches as I recognize Johns favorite--those sweet chocolate rolls.

"I knew I had left it someplace easy to find. Here," stretching over the counter, clutching a card between her fingers.

Snatching it from her hand as she huffs, I race out, my eyes scanning the blue business card.

The downpour has now reduced itself to a mild sprinkle.  
I sprint down the streets, unaware of anything other than my objective, that being Sullivans Construction and Home Renovation

The first individual I see inside the structure, I accost.  
The bearded man guides me to the office.  
I step up to the desk which houses a heap of bins of papers, an old-fashioned dial telephone, and a Rolodex.

Behind a beefy man sits an archaic PC tilting precariously on a shelf.  
The man who looks up to see me is wearing a plaid shirt whose sleeves are rolled up his elbows and reveals tattooed arms and fingers.

I ask, "What became of the ladder that was situated at Blondell's Furniture days back," all the while my insides are churning.

"What does it matter to you? It's probably on another job," and effectively ignoring the fact of my standing there.

My patience, fragile as it is, rebels, and I strike my fist on his desk, causing the documents to shuffle as I simultaneously bellow, "simply answer me."

"Fuck you, mister! Why should I bother! Get the hell out of here," he reaches over, and the flat of his hand connects with my chest, which pushes me off balance.

Upright once more, I pull a police badge out of my coat pocket and flash it.

His attitude changes to one of concern, and he emerges from his seat," have my men done anything--"

"No, no," shaking my head," I cannot disclose the reason, but I must discover the current location of the ladder."

He shrugs his shoulders, "Ah, that's very strange, but--Abbott and George took the ladder up to Northhampton."

"The address, immediately," holding out my hand, attempting to conceal its shaking,

He burrows through the various papers on the desk, digs out a pad and a pencil and scribbles an address, rips it off, and lays it in my outstretched hand.

I slide into the interior of a taxi, handing the driver the address, for which he says," that's not a quick ride from here. Cost you a bunch, ya know!"

Upon arriving at the destination, I detect the same ladder leaning against a one-story building.

Hastening out of the vehicle, murmuring a "wait for me,"-- I leave the cab door ajar and stare at the guilty metal framework.

Sherlock Holmes, is it correct to guess that you are truly going under that piece of metal, I say to myself.

Far from being clearheaded, it appears that all parts of my being are shrieking to execute this act, regardless of how absurd.

My heart pounding heavily and with dread, my legs begin the walk towards the offending piece of equipment.

I bend down and step beneath and back outside to peer at my surroundings, only to backtrack again and again.

All that I see are people on foot, however no John.  
No John anywhere!

"Hey man. What's the matter with you?" a person shouts from the rooftop, "s'bad luck to do that, ya know? You lookin' for trouble?"

I chuckle wryly at the crack; however, it has a significance so great known only to myself.

"Hey mister, I don't know what you're up to, but I have to take this down now. It's quitting time," dropping off the ladder and contriving to keep his distance.

It's all futile anyway!  
Nothing has occurred.

The tranquility that was Baker Street is absent.

John Watson was the breathing space that quieted my turbulent mind.  
There's as yet the issue of was there ever a John Watson?  
Was he found only in my mind?  
Conjured up to penetrate the silence?  
Or the void that was once cocaine?

Each day is a burden; every night is an awful dream as I strive to keep the tug of any narcotic, any stimulant at bay.

I drag myself to Scotland Yard and pull out unsolved files from the archives.  
No matter the hour I review them, my only distraction, my lone alleviation from the anguish.

I function physically, well, scarcely.  
It's my mental capability that I use to keep myself sane.

I close a large number of unsolved cases that sit on my table, which is at least an ointment that soothes my mind.  
My mind, which unhinges whenever the notion of a John Watson beats its way into my thoughts.

At any place and at whatever point my body considers it time, my eyes will close.

I arise from a near-sleep to find myself collapsed in my seat, or lying on the floor, or hanging over the kitchen table. Wherever my body collapses, turns into my bed.

Slapping a mound of documents on Detective Inspector Lestrade's work area, my voice in need of liquid, " I've dealt with these. Names and where to find the culprits are inside."

I take two strides to exit but turn, "Wait. Perhaps you can. Do you recall a John Watson, a doctor? Fair-haired, more diminutive than I, could be very short-tempered?"

"Am I supposed to know him? One of the felons from this?" pointing at the records I dropped off.

Cautious how you approach this, I think, "he may have been with me on one of our cases."

The inspector takes a step back and unintentionally slams into a metal cabinet.  
He folds his arms, while with a purposeful deliberation he studies my face, my eyes.

I become Irate that my 'friends' do perpetually assume my usage of narcotics.  
I shout at him while moving away, "No. I am not using, Inspector," dashing out and slamming the outer door.

I hear footsteps and the tap, tap of a cane which shatters my contemplations and heaving a sigh I know, it's Mycroft!

"Little brother," his waspish voice breaking the stillness of the parlor.

Without my viewing him directly I know, he's analyzing every measure of the room and myself.  
Investigating and reaching resolutions that will affect me but not in a good way for myself.

What faces his keen eyes is the soiled platters and cups, the countless file documents, all strewn throughout the room.  
I'm also conscious that he regards both my unwashed garments and myself with distaste.

His lips twist in disgust as the tip of his umbrella pushes the rubbish off a chair.  
He settles at the edge, hesitant, most likely worried about sullying his pristine trousers.

He sniffs the air and digs into a pocket for his handkerchief, placing it to his nose," Sherlock. When was the last you showered?"

I sigh, "you're troubled at my current state. Well, It's none of your concern," brushing my tangled, unscrubbed locks off my brow.

"What is it this time? Heroin or cocaine and why?"

I vault from the sofa, stepping onto the paper piled coffee table with my bare feet.  
I whirl to face him, "lay off it, Mycroft," my hands flapping aimlessly in the air, "I haven't indulged in anything more potent than nicotine patches.

Rolling up my left sleeve, I expose two frayed once caramel-colored patches.

Mycroft's nose twitches, " A long shower with plenty of cleaning products would do."

I snort, and he disregards it, to additionally irritate me by declaring," don't grunt at me. If need be, I'll have two of my--assistants--here to aide you in your washing up."

"You wouldn't dare," knowing full well that my older sibling would delight in this venture.  
Might even stay to watch.

Standing to his full height, he strikes his umbrella on the carpet.  
His mouth curves in a snarl, "it behooves you to clean this, this disorder in here, and I may add, the remainder of the flat. Try not to demand Mrs. Hudson's assistance. I revealed that if she so much as lent you a broom, the consequences would be great. Additionally, put something solid into your body. I'll have something send-up since I presume your pantry is--revolting. Good day, my brother," and ushers himself out of my sight.

I have no choice but to spend three disagreeable days in the disinfection of myself and my flat.  
I know with conviction that Mrs. Hudson is reporting to my brother.  
Her forays into the flat with the excuses of tea and/or nourishment do nothing to alleviate my mood.

In the following weeks, I spend the vast majority of my days at the NSY.  
I assume control over a spare desk and work on rummaging through the archived records for cases to solve.

DI Lestrade has admonished the other officers to give me free rein, and I find his own patience is astounding.  
He demands nothing but plies me with sandwiches and coffee.

Each evening, when I emerge from the police station, I experience the scent of Chinese cooking aromas.

The establishment produces a heart-stricken recollection of meals at home with John.

His love of any type of Asian cooking was a staple for our meals.

It's late afternoon, and my stomach turns somersaults in its emptiness, and the scent from the restaurant drives me inside.

I purchase containers of General Tso's chicken, pork fried rice, eggplant with garlic sauce, spring rolls, and a quart of wonton soup.

I cannot understand the whys of ordering sufficient food to deal with two when there is simply only one to eat it.  
Nevertheless, this is what I pay for and carry out in the plastic sacks.

I insert my left arm into the Chinese bag loops, and under my other arm, a packet of aged cases to chip away at.

Fumbling for the key, I insert it and turn the knob.

A pleasant aroma envelops the building’s ground floor.  
Mrs. Hudson is clearly in a good mood.  
She's baking ginger snaps.

Mounting the stairs, I'm bewildered at taking note of the door to the flat being slightly open.  
I distinctly recall shutting it when I left this morning.

I climb no higher than the seventh step and stop.  
I hear the tapping of computer keys and recognize that my brother has entered my flat and is utilizing my laptop.

At the twelfth step, the rear of the armchair emerges into my view--and-- no!  
No--no--no!  
It isn't--it's not to be believed!

My legs teeter, powerless to advance, while my heart races at a pace that threatens to rip it out of my body.

The documents release onto the steps, scattering them.

No, it's not brother Mycroft. His head is nearly bald; however, this one has--.  
No,--it could not be.  
The head moves to reveal its face and a broad smile, "good, and you did remember to get Chinese as I asked. Oh yea, and a hi to you, " his teasing doesn't bear weight with me at the moment.

He rises, reaches out his hand, "let me help you with--oh hell," looking around me to observe the mess all down the stairway.

Shaking my head, I succeed only in a squeak, "dropped the--."

"Well, what are you standing there for? You take the food into the kitchen and set it up, and I'll clean up the mess on the stairs."

John Watson!!!  
It's him! John Watson!!  
In this flat!  
In 221B Baker Street!!  
Preposterous!! Improbable!! Implausible!!  
My ears hear the delicious music of his voice; however, I cannot be sure it's real.  
Numb to all else, I lay the two bags of food on the kitchen table and drop my arms, staring at nothingness.

I am mindful of the blood dashing through my veins, the sound echoing in my ears.  
I remain, held in this position, not capable of movement.  
For if I do, if I move one foot, for all I know, the scene may return to- - a period with no John.  
My brain cannot function, cannot translate to a sensible interpretation.

This took me microseconds to filter, during which time I'd shifted my glance to the parlor.  
My limbs shudder as I see his laptop on the floor beside his seat and his slippers tucked neatly near.  
And there is his crocheted throw and union jack pillow lying on the chair he calls his own!  
Everything is as it was!  
As it now is!  
John Watson!!!

"For heaven's sake, Sherlock! What the hell has gotten into you! Take off your damned coat and get the plates out."

John Watson! Here!! In my--our flat!  
Going on as though this was a typical day.  
My eyes widen, and I experience--Deja Vous!  
The abundance of food!!  
I had acted as if this WAS a normal day.  
But is it?

Only one way to acknowledge this for certain.

Recognizing I am behaving wildly, I sprint up the stairs, all the while hearing the doctor bark remarks that are indistinguishable.  
I throw open the door to his bedroom.  
Upon opening his nightstand drawer--I see it -- the Beretta 92FS!  
In a daze, I let my fingers caress the firearm while I attempt to shape a sane way to deal with the events of today.

"Okay! What's going on here?" You're acting awfully strange. And for me to say that is awfully strange," his voice interrupting my deliberations.

Shutting the drawer as promptly as I opened it, my breathing erratic " I--I need to make known to you, a--story, " weak from the effort just to articulate this.

“You? Telling a story?" he chuckles while I push past and stagger down the steps to collapse into my chair.

" Sherlock Holmes, acknowledging he can tell a story. Imagine that," poking fun at me, tensely waiting while he sits in the seat across and adjusts the pillow.

I open my mouth, shut it, try to initiate once more, shocked at my inability to convey--to deliver this as a normal--.

If it can be conceived of as normal!

"As a child, John, my grandmother would narrate the tales of the Brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. Those stories were first published on 20 December 1812."

His face registers his surprise, "but I'm sure that's not what this is all about. I Grimms fairy tale. Am I right?"

"John, this is in earnest. I don't have the faintest clue where to begin. If a fairy tale could exist, this would be it," leaping up to pace the room, my stress overpowering.,/p> There is no logical way to proceed.

My feet carry me from my seat to the kitchen, into the parlor, and over to the window to stare at nothing in specific.

Realizing it will be inescapable, this narrating of a tale, I move to sit in the black armchair.  
With my hands clasped beneath my chin, my elbows placed firmly on my thighs, I try to speak.

The discharge of adrenalin is causing my restlessness, for which I see no problem in springing up and crossing to the desk.

I discover how to forgo talking by lifting and dropping random papers.  
I note that my pulse is accelerating off the charts, yet I know I can’t defer this much longer.

"You do need to calm down, Sherlock. I'm not going to bite you." how about this," lifting himself up, interrupting my movement around the room, "I'll make tea and then--."

“John, leave the damn tea,” bristling, my voice somewhere deep in my throat.

He sighs, more in wonder at my curse, lifts his arms in exasperation, and sits down, his eyes chasing me across the room.

"I recognize you will be uncomfortable and incredulous as I relate this to you.”

“Nothing shocks me coming from your mouth,” John snickers, his fingers dance a tune on the arm of his chair.

“Then, John Watson, I suggest you do not judge until it is all delivered."

It is imperative that I begin, regardless of how insecure I feel, "it began two months back. It was a day simply like today weather-wise. We had wrapped up the police administrative red tape on the Finelli jewelry theft."

“I remember, but--I know you, and you're still stalling, Sherlock."

The calling of my name from his lips is a gift I never weary of, and take a sit on the coffee table.  
It's only when I notice his eyebrows raise that I grasp he's irritated at my form of this telling.

"At the specified period I'm alluding to, we strode out of the police headquarters and commenced to walk. Precisely identical to today.”

“Oh damn, Sherlock--quit it already,” snarling.

"I don't have any other method of unveiling this story."  
The reason is clear.  
I'm fearful that I may jump directly into my heart.

John waves his hand, dismissing his impatience and allowing me to resume.  
My fear grows, my breath is becoming harder to regulate.  
I must retain some semblance of purpose.  
Some method of not registering the deep emotion that tickles at my throat.

Settling in my chair, I spread my fingers apart, gazing at each digit and willing them to clutch at my throat so as not to articulate the unspoken.

“To proceed. Before us stood a ladder which you ventured under, chuckling at the concept of death. And--you were no more. You had been standing to my right, and now you were missing."

Johns's mouth opens, preparing to give out a remark; however, I lift my hand, “no, don't. This isn't as simplistic as you suspect, and if you insist on cutting in with your own theory, I will stop.”  
Exasperated, I stand up, accepting that I'm more upset about my choice not to leave this in obscurity.  
Keep it filed away under ‘strange things happen.'  
Possibly I can leave, quit talking, and seal it away now, and he will not ever inquire any further.  
That is Johns strategy for overseeing anything terrible.  
His point of view is that if it's not spoken, it can't have occurred or can't exist

" I attempted to locate you by accessing any shops within strolling distance."

I expected the snort from John, "well, now you know how I feel. You're an idiot and do leave me alone without saying why," said with a touch of endearment.

"Envision my uneasiness when the entirety of your possessions was absent from our flat. You had left your teacup unwashed in the sink that morning, but it was not there. I raced up the steps to your bedroom and-- no pistol."  
"So that's what you were doing just before. Of course, that's impossible. How was everything gone? Why would I do that without reason? And it would take, no, let me rephrase that--I would never leave you."

His words register, yet its truth was- - he vanished.

" I scurried down to Mrs. Hudson, raucous enough in my shouting that she was obviously upset when I saw her."

"Yea, you do that. I wonder she doesn't go into cardiac arrest sometimes," his fingers toying with a piece of thread.

"She didn't have the remotest clue of who I was depicting. "

"Must have gotten her real annoyed, I imagine. You weren't at your nicest, were you?"

"She swore that I lived alone. Always had. And dismissed me by declaring she would make tea."

"All of a sudden, I comprehended! It was the ladder! The ladder was the source of this--this hallucination."

He sighs.  
A sound that is overwhelming, that touches my heart and says, "will this story end before midnight?"

Ignoring that last remark, I lean in closer to him to emphasize my words, "It demanded I venture under this ladder. I had to know where you were. It was fundamental to--," not prepared to finish the sentence.

I have to put forth a genuine attempt at forestalling the sentiment that was ready to issue to the forefront.

John moans and, in his frustration, slaps the arm of the chair, "Come on, Sherlock. You may be a mastermind at solving crimes, but you're a clod at describing a story."

"Yes, yes, I'll abbreviate the account. I did, through much manipulation, find the ladder and pass under and no you. I lost all reasoning. All my mental resources zeroed in on where you could have vanished to. I acted such a fool and continued to venture back and forth numerous times."

John chuckles and wipes his eyes," you actually did that? Go under many times? Boy, I bet you had people thinking you went off your rocker," smothering another laugh within his palm.

" I challenged Lestrade on the matter of one John Watson, and he guaranteed me no such individual existed."

"Let me guess. He thought you had gone back on cocaine, called Mycroft, who came rushing over. And what did your brother do?"

Sitting back, I wave my hand, dismissing my sibling and his effort at bringing me to my senses.

"Mycroft entered this flat and proceeded to invade every aspect of my private life. And, to console you, my dear doctor, "rolling up my sleeve," here. Satisfied?"

The nicotine patches, three of them, were solidly pasted to my arm.

"So, no cocaine, no heroin. Quite a tale," his amused countenance very telling, he asks, "is there a happy ending to this story?"

Confounded at all that happened, I endeavored to comprehend how it is that John is now sitting before me.

The doctor's voice is carefully even, " You brought Chinese food for the two of us, not knowing I was here. Is that what I understand?"

I can only bend my head as a new concept emerges.

"If I didn't know you were here, then how did I--for what reason did I--?"

John looks as though he's set up to say something yet settles his chin down to his chest.

This permits me an opportunity to conceive of a solution.

I have no coherent understanding, and for me, Sherlock Holmes, to have a riddle that can't be settled, well- - .

However, it's not a resolution in what occurred under the ladder that should be looking for.  
No, it's but a chance of tending to another puzzle, which is one of the heart.

My determination hardens.  
This must be the moment--I should own this in whatever way it may end.  
What's more, if he- -?  
There's no off-chance.  
It's now or never for me--for us.  
It's beyond the place of no return.  
"I cannot comprehend you leaving my presence ever again, do you hear me, John Watson?" the tremor is not something I can conceal right now.

"I don't plan on it, Sherlock," his eyes lock onto mine as consistent as the sun rising.

"That's not how I--you are critical--an integral part--of my life. You're- - surely, you're the- -, " where is the brilliant rhetoric that I'm known for?  
This queasiness, this desire to escape-- to anyplace-- this is --I must act and immediately before--," the nearest I have to a partner. To somebody who is with me regardless. It goes deeper--more profound than that, and,--" say it you idiot, "I love you. I--love--you."

His mouth opens, and he takes a full breath.  
His tongue swipes at his lower lip as he attempts to grapple with the enormity of what I expressed.

His eyes, those bottomless sky-blue eyes, stare intensely at me.

He squints, blinks, and nibbles his lower lip, suppressing--holding back.  
I watch the responses cross his face.  
Shock, refusal, question, alarm.  
Surprise, denial, doubt, panic.  
His face illuminates with a joyous expression.

"You--mean--love?" he croaks.  
My idiotic heart looks to shatter out of my chest, "yes, I love you, " and all good reason has dissolved.  
I watch as he rises and steps unflinchingly toward me, his eyes meeting mine with a surety I've never seen before.  
He leans, towering over me; his hands lay on my knees.  
He performs the specific action I've desired him to accomplish since our first contact.  
This rarity of a man.  
He kisses me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this little story. Please leave kudos and comments, good or bad.


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